I have celebrated only one Christmas, and an exceptional experience it was. The phrase "my only Christmas" sounds like the second line of "you are my sunshine," a warm and wonderful place to be. Want to hear?
Years ago, my two young sons and I spend a few days skiing at a small mountain about four hours' drive from home. I am newly divorced, and the boys are due at their father's house, so we plan to return home Dec. 24. Since we are Jewish, Christmas means time out from work and school, not a religious celebration.
The skiing is fun, the condo has TV and Scrabble, and we laugh. Late on the 22nd, snow falls. Lots of snow. On the 23rd, slippery highways keep skiers and employees away. We walk to the slopes, where few people are in evidence. Hallelujah! The chairlifts are free for the day, and we frolic among Santa's reindeer and boughs of holly. It is the best ski day of the trip, with no crowds, knee-deep snow, white stuff falling on our nose and eyelashes. Even falling is soft.
Early on the 24th, we learn that the highways are clear. We strip the beds, pack our gear and leave the condo key on the kitchen table, as instructed. Dump our stuff in the trunk, clean the windshield and mirrors, and we're ready to go. The engine starts without complaint. But we cannot leave the parking lot of the mountain-owned condo community because four feet of snow surround us.
Whatever the state of the Interstate, no one has shoveled our lot. Brilliant, blinding sun, and we're hip-deep in white stuff. Locked out of condo, car in snow bank, not clever enough to invent cell phones. We don't care about Christmas, but we hate the idea of spending a day in the car with a single package of Oreos.
Two minutes before panic sets in, a condo neighbor offers help. He phones the mountain's office, where chipper snow bunnies indicate that no one is going to dig us out, at least not today. By the time I phone home, this man has discussed our plight with his wife, who has whispered to their three kids, who begin teaching us the spirit of Christmas. They insist we take a room at their already-full inn.
The five combined kids head to the slopes, and I become acquainted with a pair of the finest Good Samaritans in snow country. By close of chairlift, the adults have expanded Christmas dinner to feed three more mouths, devised under-the-tree gifts for Joel and David and rearranged the loft and living room to accommodate our sleeping.
We pay rapt attention to their retelling of the Christmas story. As we sing carols together, these folks celebrate their own ability and willingness to give, and we learn a fine lesson in receiving.
We drive home safely Dec. 25, and after I send a small thank-you gift -- five matching ski hats -- we never hear from them again. No matter. We learned that the Christmas spirit transcends religion. In the chill of December, we discovered they were our sunshine, our only sunshine.
Read more essays by Susan Perloff.